


Regardless of Desire, Life Hands You Who You Are

by blue_dandelions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark Magic, Draco Malfoy-centric, Horcruxes, M/M, Mirror of Erised, Morally Grey Draco Malfoy, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Draco Malfoy, Sane Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Smart Draco Malfoy, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_dandelions/pseuds/blue_dandelions
Summary: 18 year-old post-war Draco Malfoy finds himself transported back in time to the beginning of his Fourth Year at Hogwarts.In which Draco Malfoy meets teenage Tom Riddle in the Mirror of Erised, steals and hoards Horcruxes, and fucks up the timeline in general.
Relationships: Undecided
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47





	Regardless of Desire, Life Hands You Who You Are

Draco Malfoy hated Azkaban.

He had been imprisoned here for four months whilst he awaited his impending trial. Draco was keenly aware that his trial had been intentionally delayed, but by who, he didn’t know. The wait was torturous, and the anticipation was slowly killing him. He had been raised under the impression that a sentence in Azkaban was a worse punishment than death. He found that he whole heartedly agreed.

Lucius had been imprisoned here before - not that he had ever spoken about it. Draco assumed that it was Lucius’ otherworldly pride that prevented him from even acknowledging it. Yet, just like in the many other ways that he differed from Lucius, Draco was not ashamed; he was tired and frankly, had lost the will to live.

Draco could not fathom a life for himself after this. If, by some sodding miracle, he was acquitted of his crimes, he did not dare presume that he would have a place in society. He was a former Death Eater, even if he had received the Dark Mark against his will, it would not matter. As far as the wizarding world was concerned, he had been given it of his own volition, and Draco doubted that anything he had to say would persuade them otherwise.

Draco rolled up his sleeve, glancing down at the black mark that marred his left forearm. Draco’s face twisted in revulsion and he turned away with a noise of disgust. He fixated his gaze on a crack in the wall, ignoring the unshed tears that burned in the back of his throat. He wondered if there was any way to rid himself of it.

An overwhelming, all encompassing sense of utter hopelessness washed over him. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, tipping his head back so it rested against the wall. The immense coldness of the bricks pushed against his skull, sending chills running down his spine. Draco closed his eyes, shoving his head further against the wall, forcing himself to focus on the sensation.

Draco felt so empty, irreparably so. He had failed to save his mother, and he knew that Lucius had received a life-sentence in Azkaban; the guard had been all too glad to inform him of such. All Draco had wanted was to keep his family safe. It was the only reason why he had agreed to undertake the impossible task set by that deranged murdering psychopath. And yet, Draco had failed. As he always had done.

His mother, the person he loved above all others, was dead - mauled to death by that barbaric half-breed Greyback.

Draco choked down the sob that rose in his throat. Why was he still alive when his mother was dead? Narcissa didn’t even have the Dark Mark; she had been forced into this because of her love for Lucius, just like Draco had. His mother was a victim of war. She had suffered just as much as anyone on the sodding Light side, if not more.

His throat released the tears that had been threatening to come. Draco didn’t move to wipe them away. He sat there, the sound of his sobs cutting through the silence, filling his cell. A cold despair spread through Draco’s veins, invading every corner of his body until his limbs felt like lead.

Draco sat there crying, for how long he did not know; there was no time in the cells of Azkaban, until exhaustion overtook him and he fell into a deep sleep.

—

Draco’s eyes blinked open, his gaze resting on a cream-coloured ceiling. A ceiling that most certainly did _not_ belong to his cell in Azkaban.

He scrambled backwards in shock. His eyes rapidly flicked around the empty Hogwarts Express compartment, surprise quickly shifting into extreme confusion. Draco froze, absently scratching at his left arm. He liked to pretend that if he clawed at his flesh hard enough, he could scrape it off. All he got in return for his efforts was raw and damaged skin, and a perfectly intact Dark Mark.

His hand trembled as he tugged at the sleeve on his left arm, wanting nails against flesh. He shoved back the sleeve of his black blouse forcefully, yanking the material down to his elbows.

Draco whimpered. The Dark Mark was _gone._

He let out a choked sound, and he tenderly stroked the smooth, pale unmarked skin of his left forearm with his fingers. This was a dream; a rather spiteful one at that. It was just like his subconscious to show him what he wanted most, only for it to be gone when woke.

Draco’s body slumped, and he tipped his head back, eyes fluttering shut. He revelled in the small comfort that was the soft cushions pressed against his back. He found it both absurd and mildly horrifying that a _Malfoy_ would find cushions of such low quality a luxury. Well, after months of sleeping on a cold slab of stone, he felt that his thoughts were more than justified.

Draco slowly ran his fingers through his hair. He scowled, feeling gel against his fingertips. Merlin, when was the last time that he had applied that? He glanced back down at his unmarked forearm, his chest swelling up with so many emotions he could scarcely breathe.

He pushed himself off the seat, and peered outside the compartment, scanning the hallway. It was empty.

He made his way to the nearest bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes went wide with sheer shock. The face staring back at Draco was his, but younger. His face was void of the seemingly permanent purple smudges beneath his eyes, and it was appropriately filled out. He couldn’t remember the last time it looked anything but gaunt. Draco pushed the palm of his hands against his eyes.

Draco didn’t like this dream; it reminded him far too vividly of what he once had. Not that he had particularly fond memories of his past self; a cowardly, powerless, self-centered git with a severe father-complex. Draco sighed, feeling resigned. He was _still_ all of those things, and worse.

Draco forced himself to look in the mirror again. He blanched. This radiant, innocent and youthful appearance made him feel extremely uncomfortable. His skin suddenly felt too tight, and he resisted the overwhelming urge to claw it all off.

Draco shook his head, trying to scatter his thoughts.

He turned on the tap, adjusting it to full pressure and promptly stuck his head under the running water. He stood there, letting the cold water wash over him, removing that awful gel from his hair and simultaneously clearing his mind. Just like the chill from the wall in Azkaban, the shock of cold water against his scalp made him focus on something other than his inner turmoil and increasing self-hatred.

He pulled away from the tap, turned it off and stared at his reflection in the mirror again. His white-blonde hair was damp and mussed; several strands stuck to his face, and others curled below his ears. The droplets trickled down the side of his face, down his neck before disappearing beneath his collar. He glanced down at his matching black blouse and slacks. He wasn’t in his Slytherin robes.

He sighed exasperatedly. Not that it particularly mattered; this was a dream.

Draco turned and padded out of the train, stepping out onto the empty platform. He walked onwards, and threw himself into the nearest carriage before it set off. He closed his eyes, praying that he would just fall asleep and wake up in his cell. A shiver suddenly went down his spine, and he realised that his hair was still wet. Draco couldn’t remember the last time that he had had access to _clean_ running water. It was rather refreshing.

He stepped out of the carriage, and made his way into the castle. The last time Draco had been here, it had been in ruins; blood ran freely - marring the walls, and corpses from both sides had littered the ground like leaves. He doubted that he would ever be able to walk through these walls without being constantly reminded of all the horrors that took place.

Draco wondered whether the castle had already been repaired in real time.

He continued to make his way through the castle, desperately trying to focus on his positive experiences at Hogwarts, rather than the war. It wasn’t working very well; he could feel himself getting overwhelmed. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. He focused on his breathing, religiously repeating a mantra of ‘you’re okay’ inside his head.

Draco pushed forwards, his feet subconsciously taking him to the Great Hall. He froze as he heard the growing sound of what he assumed were voices. He wasn’t alone. He sped up his pace, but halted in front of the door to the Great Hall. He could undeniably hear sound from the other side. Panic rose into a crescendo inside of him.

Draco hadn’t seen any of his former classmates since the day of the final battle when he had been taken into custody.

He took a deep breath, pushing down the anxiety and nerves that chased each other in his stomach. He grasped onto the emptiness that had been his constant companion for the past Merlin knows how long, and continued to breathe until his panic was reduced to a small bubble in the pit of his stomach. He placed his palms against the door and pushed. 

Draco stepped into the Great Hall, completely unprepared for the way every single goddamn head swivelled to face him. He froze, paralysed under the sudden attention. He hadn’t spoken to anyone other than that idiot guard and the occasional Ministry official in over four months. He gulped, swallowing down his steadily rising fear. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the varied expressions of shock.

Draco glanced down at himself. Merlin. He was the only person in the whole entire room that had not changed into their robes. He was suddenly very conscious of the fact that his hair was damp and messy. Draco Malfoy was, without a doubt, certain that he looked as if he had just been unceremoniously dunked into the Black Lake.

All thoughts of his embarrassment flew out the window as he took in the man standing behind the podium at the head of the Great Hall, staring directly at him.

_Dumbledore._

Draco’s eyes widened with equal amounts of shock and fear. He took an unconscious step back, his throat going dry.

“Mr Malfoy?” Dumbledore’s voice rung out across the Great Hall. Draco full-body flinched. Was this his own subconscious’ way of torturing him? Well, whatever it was, it was most certainly working.

Draco quickly snapped back to reality. He was suddenly very aware that he had been staring at Dumbledore like an idiot for Merlin knows how long. Fantastic. Draco swallowed, forcing his feet to move towards the Slytherin table. He kept his gaze glued to his feet, terrified of meeting those twinkling blue eyes that haunted his nightmares.

He slowly sat down at the end of the table, distancing himself from everyone. He ran a trembling hand through his damp hair. Draco’s senses were strung tight, and he felt incredibly overwhelmed. He could feel eyes on him even as Dumbledore continued his speech. His throat was thick with the beginning of tears. Draco inwardly cursed himself. If this dream’s goal was to torture him, it was certainly doing a fucking good job. Draco dragged his fingers down his face, exhaling deeply.

Draco flicked his gaze back to Dumbledore, guilt and shame unfurling in his chest. He slid his gaze along the staff table, if only to avoid looking at the man he had attempted to murder, and found Severus staring directly at him, his black eyes unreadable. Draco jolted.

Severus was alive. His godfather was alive.

Draco’s breathed hitched, and a flood of emotions clawed up his throat. Merlin, he had truly missed him.

Severus had been like a second father to Draco. He had heard that Severus died during the final battle, but Draco hadn’t even been allowed to see his godfather’s body. He could only pray with every ounce of his being that he got the funeral he truly deserved.

Draco wasn’t sure what kind of expression he was making, but Severus’ eyes widened seemingly imperceptibly in what Draco assumed was concern. He simply observed his godfather, greedily taking in the lines of his face, his furrowed brows and black eyes. He knew, for all Severus’ animosity and acidic remarks, that he cared - he just wasn’t particularly inclined to show it. He finally tore his gaze away from Severus before he burst out in tears right then and there.

“-It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.” Draco tuned back into the Headmaster’s speech. He listened as cries of outrage broke out across the Great Hall.

Right. Quidditch. The thought of playing now made his stomach curl in discomfort. He distinctly remembered Lucius buying his way into the team in second year, purely because of his stupid and pathetic rivalry with Potter. Draco certainly loved flying, but the idea of competing against Potter in absolutely anything made his skin crawl. What right did Draco Malfoy, Death Eater scum extraordinaire, have to compete against Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World?

“This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts-”

Dumbledore cut himself off at the sight of a man standing in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark grey hair, then began to walk up toward the staff table.

Merlin, Professor Moody.

Moody reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it. “May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.”

Draco wrapped his arms around himself protectively as he thought of the lesson that he had given on the Unforgivables, or the time that Moody had turned him into a ferret and tormented him. He wasn’t sure exactly why he had been fired after only one year, but Draco hadn’t been surprised. He eyed the man warily as he took his place at the staff table.

“As I was saying,” Dumbledore continued. “We have the honour of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

Draco paled considerably. The Triwizard Tournament? His mind whirred. The only thing he remembered from that were dragons, the dreaded Yule Ball, Potter crying over Cedric Diggory’s corpse, and the return of the Dark Lord.

Draco gripped his edge of the table so hard that his knuckles turned white. He felt bile rise up in his throat, and he gulped it down forcefully. Right. This was his fourth year. This dream was showing him a time before the Dark Lord had returned. It would explain his unmarked arm. Wait, that meant that his mother was still alive, and his father had never been imprisoned in Azkaban.

He curled in on himself. This dream was truly so cruel. The worst part of this whole thing was how fucking real everything felt. He had never had a dream so vivid before. Every sensation felt so realistic that he wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Draco was literally on the verge of having a fucking mental breakdown right there in the middle of the Great bloody Hall. Not that it would matter if he did, this wasn’t _real_.

Draco wanted to go to sleep and wake up in his cell in Azkaban. He would go to his trial, and then he would graciously accept the fate he deserved.

—

Draco yawned, lazily stretching his fingers across the silk sheets.

He froze. Silk?

Draco jolted, instinctively jumping into a crouch. His gaze swept across the room, his heart in his throat. He let out a bark of humourless laughter, collapsing back onto the bed, burying his face in a soft pillow.

He was _still_ here.

Last night, Draco had left the Great Hall in a rush, desperate to avoid his housemates. His feet had taken him to the only place he knew he could comfortably hide in; the Room of Requirement. It had constructed him a large room, which was empty save for a gigantic bed adorned with the green silk blankets and sheets of the finest quality.

He had still woken up throughout the night, startled awake by his nightmares, but it was undoubtedly the most relaxed he had felt in a very long time. Draco flipped onto his back, staring at the ceiling in a daze. He exhaled deeply, running his fingers over the silk sheets absently.

He had to compliment his mind; the world he had created inside his head was unbelievably realistic. Draco was astounded that he remembered Hogwarts in such detail, and was able to recreate it to such an extent in his dreams. His fingers paused. But, why was he _still_ here?

Draco had fallen asleep, which meant that he should have awoken in the real-world.

His blood went cold, and he sat up abruptly. No. There was no way that _this_ was real. Draco had been in a cell, in Azkaban. _That_ was real _._ Not this. Draco shook his head, trying to scatter his thoughts. He swallowed, his throat dry with fright.

Draco raked his hands through his hair. He was certain that he had lived through the war. His memories of it were far too real. Maybe, this was time-travel? He knew that it was possible; the existence of time-turners served as definite proof. Yet, Draco had not had access to one of those in his bloody cell.

No. If this was due to a time-turner, then there should be another version of Draco here - only there wasn’t, it was only him. Draco cursed under his breath, covering his face with trembling hands. This had to be dream. There was no other explanation. Well, none that Draco was willing to admit.

He sighed, flopping back down onto the bed, shutting his eyes tightly. He would go to sleep, and then wake up in his cell. Yes. That _would_ happen, because this was all a dream.

—

To say that Draco Malfoy was confused would be the understatement of the century.

He had woken up at Hogwarts in his fourth year _again._ He could not, for the life of him, fathom as to how he had ended up here. It could be the result of a magically induced coma, but this felt too real - to the point that it unnerved him.

If Draco had truly time-travelled, then that would imply that he had gotten a second chance at life. No. It would mean that someone had _willingly_ given him a second chance. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clenching the sheets tightly. But why him?

He didn’t understand. He was not someone worthy of a second chance. Literally anyone would be a better choice then him. He let out a long, shaky breath. A wave of panic surged over him, so intense that for a moment his ears buzzed.

Draco had thought that he was the shit when he was younger. Then the the war had hit, and it made Draco realise that he was a spineless coward. He was weak, pathetic, powerless, and he had not stood a chance. Draco snorted. He was a joke.

He pushed his palms against his eyes; he was too numb to do anything right now. Draco felt swallowed by the enormity of his situation, and suffocated by his rapidly declining self-esteem. He had been given a second chance, and he wasn’t even sure that he wanted it. Draco didn’t want to relive the war. He didn’t want to do anything actually, except sleep.

So, Draco curled into a ball, and promptly fell back asleep.

He remained in the Room of Requirement for the next Merlin knows how many days. The initial shock of time-travelling, which he had begrudgingly accepted after days of incessant contemplation, had now faded. Draco had spent the entire time constantly drifting in and out of broken sleep, not once moving off his bed except to use the toilet. He didn’t bathe or eat, considering them both luxuries that he didn’t deserve, and only summoning water when his thirst became unbearable.

Even after days of constant rest, Draco still felt tired. It was as if exhaustion was his new constant companion. Whether it was a side effect of time-travelling, or a product of one too many sleepless, nightmare filled nights in Azkaban, he didn’t know.

Draco rubbed at his eyes. He literally had no clue as to how long he had been in the Room of Requirement, but he sincerely hoped it was not long enough to get him expelled, or to have him declared missing; he could only imagine the havoc his parents would wreck upon the school.

He eventually summoned a bath, and for the first time in months, he felt _clean_. He had no idea how long he sat relaxing in the warm water for, but it was long enough for his skin to wrinkle. It felt strange to be clean, Draco mused, before laughing humourlessly at the absurdity of the situation. He was Draco _Malfoy_ , a pure-blood and Slytherin’s Ice Prince, and yet he felt weird for doing basic hygiene.

He exhaled deeply, and asked the room to supply him with a fresh pair of Slytherin robes. They weren’t his personally tailored robes, but at this point, Draco couldn’t bring himself to care. He stood in front of the door, nerves fluttering in his stomach. Draco didn’t particularly want to go outside this room. He felt safe here, which wasn’t a feeling he had felt in a _very_ long time. He exhaled deeply, and pushed open the door, only to be momentarily blinded by the onslaught of natural light.

Draco had no clue as to what time it was, or where he was even supposed to be; he had yet to receive his class schedule, which meant that he needed to pay Severus a visit. The idea filled him with both anxiety and joy. He missed his godfather dearly, but knowing that he had died left Draco at a loss for how to act around him. He hadn’t even been told _how_ he had died. Draco desperately wished that he had asked someone before the Aurors took him away. He had spent a better part of his four months in Azkaban having nightmares of the various different ways that Severus could have died.

Draco slowly made his way down to the dungeons where Severus’ office was. He didn’t know as to whether his godfather would be inside, but he knocked anyways. It took a few moments before the door swung open, revealing one irritated Severus Snape.

Draco couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at his lips. Merlin, he missed him.

“Draco?” Severus’ voice was tinged with relief. He grabbed Draco by the arm, hauling him into his office, shutting the door behind them. Draco was thrown into one of Severus’ large armchairs, and he scarcely had time to breathe before Severus launched into a lecture. “First, you pull that abhorrent stunt at the welcoming feast, and then you go _missing_.”

Draco was barely listening, he was too busy memorising the sight of his godfather’s face. “Draco, would you care to share your location for the past _five_ days?” Draco shook his head, feeling slightly dazed. Severus gazed impassively at him, his eyes dark and unreadable. Draco felt it then; a small caress, nudging against his occlumency shields. He paled, slamming up and tightening his mental walls. Severus’ eyes narrowed, and withdrew from Draco’s mind. “Since when do you know Occlumency?”

 _Shit._ He was taught by Aunt Bella after he received the Dark Mark, which was _two_ years away. Draco cursed inwardly in both English and French. “Since this past summer.”

“Oh?” Draco didn’t like the suspicious tone in his godfather’s voice. Not one bit. Draco had never been particularly talented at lying to Severus. The man knew him far too well. “And what, pray tell, has encouraged you to learn such a difficult branch of magic?”

“Self-preservation.” He shrunk under Severus’ searing gaze, and attempted to downplay it. “It was not as hard as you would believe. A lifetime of repressing one’s emotions tends to help.”

Severus stared at him with dubious black eyes before asking the dreaded question, “How did you come to learn it?”

“I’m self-taught.”

Draco could _feel_ the skepticism radiating off his godfather in waves. “Your Occlumency is extremely advanced for a self-taught fourteen year-old.” Draco felt shame swell in his chest. He more than understood Severus’ skepticism. It _was_ advanced magic; far too advanced for someone with Draco’s magic ability. Draco knew that if it weren’t for Aunt Bella’s constant threats and disturbingly casual use of Cruciatus, he never would have learned it. Pain was a powerful motivator, after all.

Draco couldn’t think of anything to say without further incriminating or embarrassing himself, so he simply opted for staring unabashedly at Severus. His godfather sighed, sounding rather resigned. “I gather that you’re here for your class schedule, considering that you missed _five_ days of schooling.”

Draco really wanted to hug him, but he figured Severus would not take kindly to the open display of affection. Severus eyebrow twitched, evidently uncomfortable under the weight of Draco’s intense stare.

Severus cleared his throat, and opened his desk draw. “It would appear that word has reached Lucius regarding your rather questionable actions.” Severus handed him a sleek, black envelope with an obnoxiously large Malfoy family crest printed on it.

He had forgotten how sodding annoying his ‘friends’ were. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lucius was actually paying them to report all of his day-to-day activities. Draco sighed, rubbing his eyes. He didn’t want to deal with this, but it was his own fault for acting suspicious.

It wasn’t as if he intentionally acted in a manner unbefitting a Malfoy. He had truly believed that this was a dream, and not some fucked up version of reality where he got a second chance that he did not want, nor deserved.

Despair flooded through Draco as he thought of the inevitable and impending war. He really, _really_ did not want to have to live through it again. Draco flicked his eyes up to Severus, who was watching him with barely concealed concern. Draco stared back, his eyes burning with unshed tears. He thought _fuck it_ , and went and wrapped his arms around his godfather. He felt Severus tense, but he ignored it and held on, burying his face in his godfather’s chest.

Severus sighed, and begun to awkwardly stroke Draco’s hair. “Burdensome godson.”

Draco bit his lip, stifling the sob he felt climbing up his throat. The last person that Draco had hugged was his mother’s corpse. He had refrained from all physical contact after that. Well, excluding that one moment on a broom with Potter in a room full of Fiendfyre. In fact, Draco had stopped showing affection to Severus when he first came to Hogwarts, deeming such actions ‘beneath him.’

Draco knew that he held on longer than appropriate, but Severus didn’t make any move to deter him. He eventually let go, and his godfather looked mildly mortified at the open affection. Yet, he didn’t say anything to discourage it or reprimand him, so Draco counted that as a win.

He smiled up at his frozen godfather, snatched his timetable from the desk, and quickly left Severus’ office before he could do something humiliating like cry. He was certain that Severus would hex him six ways to Sunday if he broke down in tears right in front of him. Draco smirked at the thought. He should try that one day, if only to see his godfather’s reaction.

Draco contemplated heading towards the Great Hall for lunch, but he quickly decided against it. He could think of fewer things he’d rather do. His housemates were scarier than a pack of wild Hippogriffs. At least Draco knew what to expect from Hippogriffs; a mauled and bloodied arm. The Slytherins were unpredictable, and therefore far more dangerous.

With that thought in mind, Draco turned around, and headed towards the entrance hall.

—

The Forbidden Forest terrified Draco Malfoy.

He had not had a single pleasant experience within these woods; Quirrellmort drinking unicorn blood, getting mauled by a rightfully offended Hippogriff, fleeing from Hogwarts with the Death Eaters after his failed assassination attempt on Dumbledore.

All of those disastrous events had taken place within the dreaded Forbidden Forest. The very same forest that Draco was currently walking through. Huge roots stretched out in front of him, twisting like the back of a Basilisk. The mulch crunched underneath his dragon-hide boots as he stalked forwards.

Draco had a good reason for being here. He really did. He just wasn’t sure if it was worth being scared out of his wits every time he saw a shadow move, which was _all_ the time. The entire goddamn forest was made up of moving shadows. He wouldn’t even be surprised if a horde of Centaurs charged towards him and trampled him to death.

It would, at least, be on par with all of the other experiences he had in this blasted forest.

Draco moved as quickly and nimbly as he could through the trees, careful to avoid the protruding roots. He prayed to whatever divine beings were listening, maybe the same ones who had sent him back in time, that he didn’t get lost and die. He wasn’t sure that anyone would look for his body here, so dying would be really inconvenient.

He wove his way through the thick foliage, eyes darting around for a wide opening in the trees. Draco slid behind a tree as a small clearing finally came into view. He peered around the edge of the trunk to see a herd of them milling about.

Thestrals.

Draco smirked triumphantly. He, of course, had been able to see them since his sixth year, but he avoided them because he felt like a freak for seeing something no one else did. Draco slowly padded into the clearing, his footsteps light on the forest floor. They were fascinating; morbid yet beautiful. The dark and sleek skin was so thin, that the Thestral’s bones were clearly defined. The leathery wings were tucked against their slides, and their dragon-like faces bore white, expressionless eyes.

Draco tentatively walked towards the Thestral that was closest to him. It snapped its head towards him, and he froze. He really didn’t want yet _another_ creature to attack him. The imagine of a rearing Hippogriff flashed before his eyes.

Ignoring all those cowardly instincts of his that told him to run the fuck away, Draco grit his teeth and took a small step closer. Did he have to bow for this one, too? He didn’t know anything about Thestrals, which was, in hindsight, rather stupid. Yes, Draco. Let’s charge into the Forbidden Forest of Certain Death to find a pack of sinister creatures that you know nothing about.

Draco held out his hand, watching as the Thestral sniffed it. His breath caught in his throat. It could totally chomp off his hand right now. Instead, it butted his hand with its head. Draco slowly stroked it, relishing in the glossy feeling of its coat. Draco smiled softly. It was such a shame that it took witnessing death for these creatures to be visible. He guessed that was what made them so fascinating.

Draco, feeling far more at ease than he should in a clearing full of death-horses, sat down on the forest floor, resting his back against the trunk of an overgrown tree. He tentatively withdrew Lucius’ letter from his pocket. He inhaled sharply, and undid the large Malfoy seal.

_To Draco Lucius Malfoy,_

_It has come to my attention that you have been conducting yourself in a manner unbefitting a Malfoy._

Draco snorted. That was an understatement if there ever was one.

_I would take care to remind you that your behaviour and decorum affects, not only the opinion of you, but that of our family. You are the heir to the Malfoy name, I should not have to remind you to act as such._

_Lucius Abraxas Malfoy._

Draco should have felt threatened, or at least offended by the contents of the letter. Yet, all he felt was an overwhelming fondness and an extreme sense of nostalgia. It was refreshing to have Lucius write to him berating his lack of decorum. He had grown disturbingly accustomed to the distant and anxiety-inducing letters that Lucius had begun to send upon the Dark Lord’s return.

He missed his parents. Draco wanted to see them so badly that his chest physically ached. Yet, he knew that in order to do so, he would have to return to the Manor. Draco knew that he would not be able to set foot in that godforsaken place without visualising all of the horrors that had occurred there. He was aware that he would have to get over his fear eventually; he couldn’t _not_ go home.

Draco was pulled from his musing by the sound of leaves rustling. He froze, every limb in his body tensing. Draco whipped his head to the right, slowly withdrawing his wand from his pocket. He shot to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that made his head spin, and brandished his wand in the direction of the noise. Pansy and Blaise stepped out from behind a tree, their hands raised in surrender. Draco let out a sigh of relief, and lowered his wand. They were both looking at him with expressions of anxious concern.

“Draco?” Pansy’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Draco slid down against the tree trunk, flopping onto the floor. “How did you find me?”

“We were on our way to potions when we saw you come out of Snape’s office,” Blaise settled onto the ground beside him, warily eyeing the Thestral that stood close by. Draco inhaled sharply. He had forgotten that Blaise had been able to see them since first year. Draco couldn’t imagine witnessing death so young.

Pansy nodded, kneeling on Draco’s other side, oblivious to the Thestral that was now sniffing her hair. “It was the first time we’d seen you since, well-”

“Since I had a mental bloody breakdown at the opening feast?” Draco muttered.

Blaise placed a gentle hand against his land. “Draco, if you want to talk about it, we’re here for you. You know that, right?” Draco swallowed around the lump in throat. The three of them had been truly inseparable growing up; like real siblings. Then, the war happened. Draco had brutally pushed them away in order to protect them. It had affected him far more than he cared to admit.

“I appreciate it. Really,” he gave them a wobbly smile. “But, there’s nothing-”

“Merlin, Draco!” Pansy burst out, throwing her hands into the air in exasperation. “You clearly have _no_ idea how worried we were.”

Blaise snickered. “Pans was inconsolable. She kept on harassing our poor Head of House.”

Draco smirked. “Severus doesn’t cope with female sentimentality very well. I’d go as far as to say that he’s allergic.” Pansy mumbled something indistinguishable under her breath, probably an insult to Severus’ inability to handle emotions.

“But, Draco,” Blaise’s tone turned serious, concern crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’d tell us if something was wrong, yeah?”

Draco swallowed heavily. “If I couldn’t handle it by myself, then-”

“ _Draco_ ,” Pansy interrupted, her voice thick with emotion. “That is just another way of saying that you won’t let us help you.” Damn, the woman was annoyingly perceptive.

Draco stared down at his lap. “I don’t want to burden you.”

“You’re our _friend,_ ” Blaise said with vehemence. Draco peeked at him from underneath his lashes.

“You’re not a burden, not to us,” Pansy gave him a smile. He really didn’t deserve them. “Now, I take it that you haven’t eaten lunch. Let’s go pester unsuspecting house-elves until they give into our demands for food.”Blaise hauled him to his feet, and Pansy linked her arm through his, dragging him back towards the castle.

“Why were you in the Forbidden Forest? I thought that you were terrified of the place,” Blaise asked. Draco climbed over a large root, and his head spun; he was starting to feel a little faint.

“I wanted to see the Thestrals.” Pansy halted, and Draco swayed slightly under her grip.

“You can see them?” A look of disbelieving shock passed over her face. Draco let his eyes fall shut, trying to block out a wave of dizziness.

“Since when?” Blaise demanded. He forced his eyes open, and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Does this have anything to do with your, uh-”

“My mental breakdown?” He supplied, quietly amused. “It’s indirectly related.” He shook off Pansy’s grip, and continued walking. Draco’s mind was now swimming; he felt incredibly light-headed.

“What does that mean?” Pansy frowned, bounding after him. Draco walked slowly, aware that his movements were unnaturally sluggish as he fought to keep the dizziness at bay.

“Draco?” He heard Blaise call out. He ignored him, forcing his feet to keep moving. The ground seemed to sway beneath him, and Draco grit his teeth stubbornly. Then nausea slowly crept from his stomach to his head, and the world went black.


End file.
